


your mundane glories

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Dealing, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 17:32:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He shouldn't be here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your mundane glories

**Author's Note:**

> For [darkangel_0410](http://darkangel_0410.livejournal.com) who bought fic from [this post](http://coricomile.livejournal.com/306968.html) It uh. Came out less happy than I was going for? Thank you, dear.

He shouldn’t be here. Patrick bounces off the wall, his skin scraping against the brick until it feels raw and torn. He feels drunk, like maybe he’s been pounding shots instead of running. Either way his head is dizzy, his heart beating in rough triple count beats in his chest.

Where he should be is in his room, doing his homework. Where he should be is safe and warm and away from the mess that Pete just left in the gas station. He feels a little sick. His stomach churns, his heart thump, thump, thumps. He runs.

The hand that grabs him is too hot on his arm. The rough skin of Pete’s palm catches on his, scrapes into the raw place the brick left until all he can feel is the sharp pain of his nerves firing, onetwothree, in sensation overload.

“He’s not going to talk,” Pete says, dragging Patrick back toward him. They bounce off one another, shoulder to chest, but Pete doesn’t let him go. He’s got blood on his chin. On his white knuckles. In his hair.

“You hurt him really bad,” Patrick says. Like it matters. Like Pete doesn’t know. There had been blood on the ground and the counter and all over the cashier’s face. There are no bones in the human nose, but Patrick had _heard_ the snap when it hit the counter.

“Business,” Pete says. He pulls Patrick closer to him, until they’re pressed chest-to-chest, pulses racing for some far off finish line. Pete wipes the back of his wrist over his chin to clean off the blood.

“You didn’t say it was going to be this way,” Patrick says. He didn’t know what he was supposed to expect. All he had been told was that he was going to get to see Pete really hustle, to see him deal at his finest hour. Somehow he hadn’t thought it would end in-

“He’s alive.” Pete laughs, backing Patrick into the wall. He’s warm and heavy and solid, all skin and muscle and sweat right inside Patrick’s space. He pats Patrick’s cheek with his free hand, too hard to just be playing. “Just a little busted.”

“That was more than a little,” Patrick mumbles. He can’t really breathe, not with Pete this close to him. He can smell the cologne Pete wears and the sticky sweet sugar that’s still clinging to his fingertips from dinner.

“Business,” Pete says again. There’s a baggie in his back pocket, carefully folded and measured. When they’d first met, Pete had offered him a sample and only laughed when Patrick had politely declined. “It’s not the movies out here, Stump.”

Patrick bristles. He hates it when people do that. When they treat him like a kid, or like he’s three pages behind in the story. Especially Pete. Mostly Pete.

“I didn’t expect it to be,” Patrick hisses. Pete grins, all teeth and blood and big eyes in the dark.

“Yeah you did,” he says. He sounds like he’s laughing. “It’s alright. I did too when I first started out. You get used to it.”

Patrick wonders how long ago Pete got used to it. He wonders when Pete started dealing and when he started teaching kids to deal and when he thought he wasn’t in over his head. When Pete leans into him, Patrick can taste metal on his tongue.

“Live a little, kid.” Pete’s breath is hot on Patrick’s cheek. It smells like the wintergreen gum that he’d offered Patrick on the ride over. He lets Patrick’s wrist go but doesn’t back away. “What do you want? Right now. I can give you anything.”

“Why?” Patrick can’t look away, but he can’t look Pete straight on either. He’s just some dumb kid who got caught up in the idea of being bad. There’s no reason for Pete to give him a second thought, let alone anything tangible.

“Because you’re pretty and I have a loose heart.” Pete’s grin has grown, eerie and beautiful and as violent as everything else about him. His cheek brushes against Patrick’s. Patrick can hear his heart beating right up against his eardrums. “Come on. Think about it.”

Everything turns cold when Pete steps back. Patrick shivers, but follows right along. What else is he going to do?

Pete turns the radio up too loud on the drive back to his place. It pulses in Patrick’s brain, bass beats overtaking the rhythm of his heart. He doesn’t know what he wants from Pete, or what he could ask for that wouldn’t seem childish. Does Pete know that? Is he just teasing? Patrick doesn’t risk looking up at him. He can barely think as it is.

Pete’s studio is big enough to fit his bed, a dresser, and his nightstand. Patrick’s been in it before, briefly, but standing inside it now, knowing what he knows, it feels different. He fiddles with the action figures lined up in front of the old TV while Pete washes off in the tiny bathroom. After the car, the apartment feels too quiet. There aren’t a lot of middle grounds with Pete.

“Still freaking out?” Pete asks. He’s got a towel in one hand and his bloody shirt in the other. Patrick does his best to look at Pete’s face, but what he mostly can see are the scars crisscrossing over Pete’s chest.

“No,” Patrick answers sullenly. He isn’t, mostly. He’ll probably dream about the way the gas attendant’s face had shattered so easily, probably have nightmares about running away for months. But right now? He’s mostly just tired.

“Know what you want yet?” Pete asks. When he tosses his towel into the hamper, the scars pull against his skin.

“No,” Patrick says again. He’s got school in the morning. His mom thinks he’s at James’ house, studying for his French final. If he wants to even pretend to make it there in time, he has to wake up at five am. He doubts he’s even going at all.

“Alright,” Pete says. He drops his shirt and goes for his belt. It’s old and worn and thick, made of leather that snaps when he pulls it out of its belt loops. “How about I make it clear what you want?”

For a moment, just a heartbeat or two, Patrick can’t breathe. He thinks about the drugs in Pete’s pocket and the broken face of the gas attendant and wonders what damage Pete could do to him. 

“Breathe,” Pete says, low and warm and too close. When Patrick tips his head up, already suspecting what’s coming, Pete kisses him.

It feels dangerous. Patrick sinks into all the warm skin in front of him, eyes closing and fingers curling around Pete’s biceps. Everything feels a little dizzy, like he’s sucking up Pete’s drugs through osmosis, absorbing all his powders and pills and plants. Patrick’s always been too good for his own good.

The room is too small for the both of them, shrinking around them with each second. Patrick presses into Pete like it’ll stop the walls from closing in. He’s too eager and Pete’s too experienced, and Patrick shouldn’t want to fall into bed with him when he knows what he does, but he still goes when Pete leads him three steps back.

The mattress is cool and soft and a little small for both of them. But Pete rolls onto his side and pulls Patrick into him, all force and sharp laughs, and Patrick knows that this was the danger he was looking for when he snuck out of his bedroom.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Pete’s skin is smooth and warm all the way down to his unbuckled jeans. Patrick knows that he could just reach in and touch and take and let go, but he feels frozen even in the sweltering space between Pete’s arms. He’s got too many shirts on. Not enough. He’s not really sure anymore.

“Yeah?” Pete asks, his hand creeping slowly down, down, down Patrick’s chest. It’s like fire. Patrick could say no right now. He could walk home and crawl into his own bed and forget that Pete ever existed. He could, but he’s not stupid.

“Yeah,” he says. He looks at the way Pete’s hair falls into his face and the way his cheeks puff out when he smiles and feels his stomach tighten and his jeans tighten and-

Breathe, he tells himself. Breathe.

Pete undoes his jeans with one hand. His other hand is still running up and down Patrick’s back, soothing him like he’s going to bolt at any moment. Patrick sucks in a breath and forces himself to release it. He’s been here before, with other people. Just because Pete is Pete, he shouldn’t be nervous.

Shouldn’t be. That doesn’t stop Patrick from shaking a little as he wriggles out of his jeans. The bed frame creaks as he moves, bounces against the walls. He wonders what it would sound like if Pete were fucking him. If maybe it would squeal and smash into the wall until there was a broken space in the drywall that had his name written in it.

He’s pretty sure he won’t find out.

Pete wraps easy fingers around him, hidden by Patrick’s boxers. He can feel the spaces between Pete’s knuckles, can feel the drag of each and every millimeter of dry skin against his dick. It’s a little too rough, but he really, really doesn’t care.

“You’re such a sucker for bad boys, aren’t you?” Pete’s lips brush his cheek when he talks. They’re warm and slick. It’s an insult. Patrick knows it’s an insult, but he still nods and rocks his hips into Pete’s hand. He is, and there’s no denying the truth. “I love ‘em like you. Sweet. Innocent. Too curious for their own good.”

Patrick ignores the spike of jealousy that settles into his chest. He knows he’s not the first kid Pete’s picked up. Doubtful he’ll be the last either. Instead, he forces himself to keep his eyes open and watches Pete’s bicep bunch and release with every slow stroke. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still stuck under his skin, or maybe it’s just been too long, but he can feel every touch straight down to his bones.

He whines, hips shoving up against Pete’s hand. When he turns his head to- to something, he doesn’t really know- his mouth presses against Pete’s arm. He can taste salt and maybe blood, all hot and tangled and dirty on his tongue. Pete’s fingers tighten on him. Patrick can’t breathe.

“Is this what you thought would happen?” Pete asks.

It sinks low into Patrick’s belly, collecting steam and heading straight to his cock. Yes. No. Maybe. Probably. This is probably what he had been thinking could happen, if he played along right. Pete’s bicep keeps hitting his mouth, knocking his lips into his teeth. They feel swollen, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t know what to say.

Not that it seems to matter. Pete jerks him faster, too rough and too dry and it hurts enough to feel like currents of electricity are hiding in Patrick's spine. Patrick groans anyway, fucking up into it because he can't stop. His clothes are stuck to him, sweaty and damp and his mouth _aches_. 

He can feel his orgasm in the space behind his navel, so close it stings. His hand skims over Pete's chest, fingers digging into whatever soft spots he can find. He hopes he leaves bruises. 

When he comes, he bites down onto Pete's arm. He feels a little brave and vicious and just as dangerous as Pete, but mostly he just feels himself shaking as Pete jerks him through it.

"Fuck," he chokes out. He tries to squirm away from Pete's hand. It's too much and not enough and he's never going back to what he had before.

"Next time," Pete says, leering. It shouldn't make him laugh, but Patrick feels a hysterical little bubble rising up anyway. "My turn. Come on."

Patrick is loose limbed and only a little suspicious as Pete rolls him onto his back. He lets Pete adjust him, lets Pete lay his head on a pillow and crawl on top of his chest. He's heavier than he looks, all muscle inside that small body.

"Open up," Pete says, low and hungry. He shoves his jeans down enough for his cock to pop out. It's thick and dark and all because of Patrick. Slowly, Patrick opens his mouth.

Pete slides in so, so slow. Patrick can feel his lips stretching around him, making room. He’s done this once before, locked up in a room with someone almost as inexperienced as him. It hadn’t been as exciting then. Not like this. His heart skips too fast as he tries to adjust to Pete pushing in deeper.

“Stay like that, yeah.” Pete curls his fingers into Patrick’s hair, sticky and kind of gross, and holds him still. Patrick looks up at him and tries to nod. 

He can hear the bag in Pete’s jeans crinkling every time Pete moves his hips. It’s loud, even under the slick, wet sounds coming from him. Patrick reaches up a cautious hand and rests it over the swell of Pete’s ass. He can feel the bump of the drugs nestled right in his palm. For a moment, Pete presses back into his hand, and then he’s fucking Patrick’s mouth like it’s the last thing he’s ever going to do.

Patrick coughs a little, can feel drool running over his chin and onto his chest. He can’t move his head, doesn’t really want to, but Pete still tightens his fingers in Patrick’s hair and pulls him closer. Everything goes a little blurry as Patrick’s eyes water. He hopes Pete’s almost done, wants to make it last longer, is having problems breathing. 

“Fuck,” Pete groans. Patrick can feel it vibrate all the way through him. When Pete pulls back, sudden and unexpected, Patrick drags in a breath that makes his lungs ache. He feels dizzy. “Fuck.” Pete comes in thick stripes over his chin, his neck.

It should make him feel dirtier than it does. Patrick pants in shallow breaths until he can see straight again. Pete’s weight on his chest isn’t helping, but he doesn’t want to let him go. If he really is just another thread in the string of Pete’s ill advised hookups, he wants to let it last a while longer.

“Jesus Christ,” Pete says, rolling onto his side. The bed creaks and groans under his weight. He laughs and pulls Patrick into him. Patrick can hear his heartbeat right under his ear. It sounds as unsteady as he feels. 

For a moment, Patrick forgets about what he’s seen and what he knows and just lets himself be held. Maybe he’s just a kid that wants to play bad on the weekends, but he thinks that Pete maybe wants to play good. He can help. He wants to help.

“Stop thinking,” Pete says. He presses his face to Patrick’s hair. “Just stop thinking.”


End file.
